In Absentia
by alwayswritewithcoffee
Summary: He told her that great love stories have obstacles to overcome. As she stares at the smiling portrait tacked up on the white board, Kate knows Castle was right. A season 7 speculation fic. Spoilers for all episodes. No character deaths.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hello everyone! So this is the beginning of my official hiatus fic for the summer. I've spent most of the week plotting it out and while trying to write the next chapter of Manhattan, I got this instead. Hope you enjoy! _

* * *

"No, no no no no — Castle…." the words come pouring out, growing in volume and emotion until it's something like a wail, Kate's screams rising along with the flames that still lick at the steel frame of the car.

She's moving before she can process it, sheer disbelief and shock bringing her to her knees. It's an appropriate metaphor, ruining her mother's wedding dress with a layer of dirt and grime when her life is falling apart around her. No wedding, no happily ever after, just three wasted days up-state chasing resolution for a stupid thing she did in her youth.

Time she would have, should have spent with him. Hours spent confessing all the things she never said, worshipping his body, his mind, soaking in every last bit of Richard Castle that she could draw.

But she didn't know, would have never guessed that their last moment together arrived as Castle pressed her against the side of her car, bid her a thorough goodbye with the slide of his tongue and insistent slant of his mouth over hers. Both something to remember and a promise for the short twelve hours when they would seal their union with another kiss.

She had driven the entire way to the Hamptons with a smile on her face, crossed this very spot with butterflies dancing in her stomach and happiness spreading through her veins.

All of it, reduced to nothing but charred metal and broken glass.

* * *

Somewhere along the way, Kate becomes numb to it all. The comforting words of the guests who had arrived expecting a wedding and leave waiting for word on a funeral. Phrases like 'I'm sorry' and 'you poor thing', sympathetic looks and pats of the hand where she sits near the large bay window, wedding dress muddy and stained, hair in disarray, makeup washed away by tears.

She remembers what it is like to be the center of such a moment, the grief of her mom's wake engulfing Kate with the same swiftness of the tide that steadily churns up on the beach beyond the backyard. That ache which had lessened since William Bracken went to jail has returned in tenfold, giving her a clear perspective on just how her father had tipped himself into a bottle of liquor and taken nearly ten years to pull himself out.

Drinking numbed the pain, he had told her once. For a long time he could drink and forget that his wife was dead, pretend nothing had changed. It was the morning after that proved the problem, drove him to drink more to remain in that state of fantasy.

And she wants it. She desperately wants to follow her father's self-destructive habits, to sneak into Castle's well-stocked bar and drown herself in the Scotch that he so loved but wouldn't need again. Anything to stop her mind from replaying the crackle and pop of the fire, the choking curl of the smoke as it devoured the car. Anything to forget that the happiest day of her life has become the absolute worst.

But she won't do it, all too aware of the two redheaded women who sit to her left. She and Castle had both made a promise after her stint as Elena Markov, promised that if something happened to one of them, they would see after the rest of their family. It doesn't matter that they aren't related by law, Martha and Alexis are as much Kate's family as her father. Just like Esposito, Lanie, and the Ryans. A ragtag band that chose one another by experience as blood.

So she moves for the first time in hours, limbs cracking and blood flowing back into joints that have gone stiff. Kate can feel how the room stills when she stands up, the pairs of eyes that follow her the five steps it takes to meet Martha and Alexis on the couch. And then she wedges herself between them, curling an arm around Alexis' shaking shoulders, wedging her fingers between Martha's and squeezing with all of her might.

And then, for the first time since she saw the wreckage, Kate allows herself to cry.

* * *

The lump in her throat and the itchy pull of the skin under her eyes would be reminders of their own merit, as much of a calling card to the horror of the day as the gaping hole in her chest. In the four hours since the accident, Kate has convinced herself that she could almost believe it, find some healthy way to accept and cope if she had definitive answers.

But there are none. Not until the medical examiner can do a thorough check, until the fire chief and the police have gone over the car, the skid marks, taken eye witness statements. She thinks she should be helping them, out pounding the pavement and demanding that someone explain it to her, but Kate knows that this isn't her mother's case and she is no longer encased in steel, able to take endless rounds of abuse without flinching and without breaking.

Loving Castle, being loved by him, have made her softer, more of the free-spirited and lively teenager she had been until her mother's murder. Her reckless streak and adrenaline junkie tendencies are now largely restricted to work and the bedroom, wild nights of picking locks on tour buses, one night stands and 4 a.m. benders long since losing their luster. She's content to stay home, curl into the warmth of the man she loves, relaxing with a glass of wine and a movie that they usually didn't watch. Too enamored with one another, too giddy and in love to be content wasting hours with the television, not when they could be talking, teasing, expressing themselves in other physical pursuits.

Kate can feel the tears welling up again, the lump in her throat swelling up to choke her, her nose wrinkling in a pointless attempt to stop them. But she's sure that if she could die from emotional pain, this would have absolutely killed her. Sitting in a room full of people, consoling a mother and daughter with whom she felt it was her job to provide a solid foundation, filling the one so unwillingly abandoned by Castle. All of it had placed a damper on her own grief. It was a credit to compartmentalization, the mental device born from years and years of holding herself in check at work, never bringing her true feelings to the table. Even through the barriers Castle had broken, the way she sometimes lost her cool after getting a taste of the true depth of emotion one person can have for another, compartmentalizing had been her life source, the way Kate kept on pushing and fighting despite the odds.

But now she feels empty, that black chasm of grief that haunted her after her mother's death opening wide as she stands in the master bedroom. Truly alone for the first time since the phone call, the tears begin in earnest, accompanied by a sob that Kate only traps by biting her lip hard enough that it bleeds. And suddenly she's furious, her green eyes blazing in anger at the universe and whatever horrible fate it has in store for her, the complete refusal to allow her a happy ending. To allow Castle the relationship he has always wanted and confessed to her he had finally found.

The cry she releases is strangled, her fingers becoming claws as they tug and pull at the delicate material of her wedding dress. Kate's chest heaves with the effort to unfasten the clasp under her left arm, to slide the zipper down her torso and lift the intricate top from her body. But the dress feels like a noose, slowly squeezing her sanity and stealing her ability to draw a breath.

Not that the latter becomes any easier once the garment lays at a pile around her feet. She's still sobbing, body almost broken in half though her hands work furiously at the pearl bracelet on her wrist, the dainty art deco ring that Castle had delivered as a wedding present, the earrings Martha had so beautifully presented. They all fall to the carpet with small thuds, joining a growing pile of hair pins and the lingerie Kate wasted an afternoon searching for across the West Village until she'd found just the right thing.

She leaves it all on the floor, stumbling through a haze of tears to the bathroom and a stream of water that is as hot as she can stand. And then she adds music to it, fingers slamming into the small dock on the counter, some mournful jazzy melody piping through the speakers hidden in the walls. As the saxophone bleeds out the tune, Kate lets herself snap, body crumbling against the slate floor of the shower, one fist pounding at the stone while the other beats against the wall. The tears are thick and hot, sending whatever remains of her mascara and eyeliner to mark a dark trail on her pale skin but it doesn't matter. The door is locked, the bathroom is relatively soundproof, and here there is no worry of scaring everyone.

So she lets it all go, her long limbs curling in on themselves as she cries out, a steady repeat of useless agony and Castle's name trailing into the type of whimpering she hasn't allowed herself to engage in since she was seven and fractured her arm after falling from a tree at the cabin.

By the time she's exhausted herself, the water has grown cold, leaving Kate to scrub the day in an ice bath that shocks her system back into some form of normalcy. The pain is still razor sharp, the chasm still wide, but it's no longer eating her alive as she dries herself off, dresses in one of Castle's t-shirts and a pair of shorts.

She brushes her teeth mechanically, neither tasting the toothpaste or processing the heavy, gutted eyes and sallow skin of the woman she sees in the mirror. And she falls into bed quietly, arms wrapped around Castle's pillow, thoughts drifting in her head of how she never expected to sleep alone.

* * *

The edges of her dream are already blurry when she wakes, only the impression of Castle's sky blue eyes and lopsided smile, the feel of his hands skirting across her skin. Kate stays still, willing her body to go back to sleep in the hope of recapturing the dream, but its futile because whatever woke her has her body set like a live wire, muscles tense for action, ears perked and alert though her mind wants the escape of sleep and thereby avoid reality for a bit longer.

Castle's gone. They aren't getting married. It all floods back in, tears again threatening to spill over onto her cheeks as she sighs, pushes herself into a sitting position to scrub the heels of her hands against her face.

But then she can hear them beyond the hall, the low rumble of voices speaking back and forth. The tone is tense, the pace rapid, and there is enough variation that she's sure practically her entire family bar, she's assuming, Sarah Grace, are perched on the other side. The door knob rattles for just a moment, reminding Kate that she had locked the door during her retreat, and she's flooded by guilt. They are all just concerned about her, undoubtedly debating the best way to check on her and still afford some privacy and while it's sweet, she's painfully aware of how selfish her actions had been. You don't abandon your family in grief, but she had.

And she needs to apologize, Kate decides as her feet touch the floor. Her mother's dress (and now her own, she supposed) is still in its creamy heap, the sparkle of diamonds and two sapphires twinkling in the grey tinge that signals dawn is fast approaching. She steps over it all, determined to get back to it before the bone rattling knock slices open the still, yet heavy calm of early morning. It's with enough force that Kate freezes in place, sucking in a pull of air before her father's voice cuts above the drumming on the wood that she's sure belongs to Javier Esposito - Ryan would at least have a gentler hand, no matter the desperation that everyone feels on the other side of the white washed wood.

"Katie, open the door," her dad's voice is plaintive, though still not enough to hide the worry, and Kate can feel the tears forming for a different reason. She's ashamed of herself because she's obviously scared the people who love her the most.

Flipping the lock, she can feel the tension dissipate from the small crowd that hovers in the hallway the moment the door swings inward. Her initial assessment of the people on the other side of the door proves to be wrong as Sarah Grace's curious blue eyes are the first pair she meets, followed by Jenny's strained smile. Even her aunt has joined the group which…well, she loves Teresa, but its no surprise that her father's older sister would want to be in on the drama happening in the house.

"Sorry," she begins, meeting her dad's gaze and then turning it on Martha and Alexis in turn, "I didn't mean to worry you I just…." Kate stops short, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as the words she needs to express herself come up horribly short.

"It's okay," Alexis says first, her eyes still swollen and red-rimmed though it at least appears that she tried to sleep. The matching shorts and tank top set are one Kate recognizes from home, in fact it appears everyone attempted a trip to bed if the attire is anything to go by, "It's not even that, not really, we all need sleep but you…." the teenager stops, her lips pressing together as she turns her head towards the detective at her right. Kate's attention follows Alexis' gaze, taking note of the position of Javi's right hand as it encloses Lanie's smaller one and the left which holds her iPhone.

A phone which is currently ringing and displaying the caller id of Hamptons Police Chief John Brady.

* * *

"Chief Brady," Kate's voice is breathless when she answers the front door, heart jumping straight to her throat and hammering away. She knows its a bad idea to hope for good news, but what her head knows and her heart wants are two very different things. As it is, it's all she can do to stay standing upright, utilizing the door frame to hold her weight as the police chief strides through the door and follows Martha from the foyer into the living room where everyone has gathered, picking at pieces of fruit and waffles made by Jenny, staring at cups of coffee.

Kate takes a seat beside her father, anxious as the others settle around the room. Alexis makes the decision to sit at her other side, linking arms with her and she notices Martha quietly taking the space beside her dad. The four of them huddled together on the couch, with Lanie, Jenny and the boys at the opposite side. Her aunt bridges the gap in a wing chair, looking almost as regal as Martha with her upright posture and observant stare.

"Detective Beckett, we've done as promised and carefully gone over the car. There's no sign of a body so wherever Mr. Castle is, we are presuming that he is alive," the police chief says, voice full of relief that he isn't delivering bad news to someone who once provided him with immeasurable help to close a case. "We know from some witnesses that a black SUV was seen following your fiancé at a high rate of speed about two miles from the bridge, and the tire treads are being ran now for prospective matches. Getting any other evidence from the car is going to be difficult, the fire destroyed most of it, and the accelerant ensured it burned long and at a high heat level…."

"An accelerant?" Esposito pipes up, "That's from your fire chief?" The detective waits out the nod from Chief Brady, swearing quietly. "So someone wanted to send a message. Drive him off the road, pull him from the car and set it on fire? Hell of a grudge, Beckett."

The dread begins low in her gut, churning slowly as the list of names flash through her mind like a movie reel. She can think of a couple of people who have a bone to pick, namely the son of a bitch she just locked in jail for life on about eight counts or murder, attempted murder, bribery, money laundering, and extortion. She tries to hold it in, to fight the pull of dizziness and nausea that flare up at the realization of just who might have ordered such a horrible thing to happen, but its useless.

She's up and shutting herself in the small half bathroom before anyone else has gotten to their feet, bringing up nothing but acid that burns her throat and her nose, brings tears to her eyes. But Kate's also crying for a different reason, the panic that had been delayed and consumed by the grief of losing Castle bursting forth in a surge of emotion. Of course there is no way to be sure, not until there is definitive evidence or some sort of demand but she's willing to bet some rather sentimental things that it isn't over between she and Bracken.

Somehow, someway he's figured out how to get to them from prison. Somehow he has Castle.


	2. Chapter 2

When he snaps back into reality, its to the sharp, searing jab of pain against his left side. To Castle it feels like a hot poker that is slicing his skin open, flaying away the delicate layer to leave nothing but muscle and bone. It's one of those times where he hates his vivid imagination, the barrage of words that filter in with the pain and the heat, and it is certainly one of those times where he knows he's better off not looking, just keeping the scream tamped down. Don't let them see that it hurts.

But it does. He can feel the blood dripping down his arm, the spasm of his muscle and its entirely possible that he's going to slip into shock, that's assuming he doesn't have a concussion or some other debilitating injury from being forced off the road at a high rate of speed.

When he drums up the nerve to look, the reaction is immediate. He's helpless to stop the gag reflex that is employed at the sight of two fragments of bone poking through his skin, of the swollen, blotchy mess of his forearm and the clumps of blood. It both explains the sensation of something poking his skin, and terrifies him that his mind has translated that to searing heat when his arm feels like a heavy block of useless lead. Weighing him down with its cold and heavy existence, utterly incapable of providing any way of getting him out of this situation, of returning to Kate, and his daughter. To see his mother and the boys.

Right now he should be married, basking in what was sure to be an excellent night of consummation before a day of travel to their own private oasis. Instead, he's trussed to a chair, hidden in shadow, and trying not to lose what little food remains in his system.

Yelling for help feels futile because his ears can hear the steady chirp of crickets and the call of whatever bids inhabit the trees at night. Wherever he has been taken, its sure to be remote so Rick remains quiet, using the rest of his senses to catalog his surroundings.

The truth is that there isn't much, he's underground, some cinder blocked room with shelves for storage, one lone lamp providing just enough light that he can see shadows of items resting on them. Beyond his chair there is no other furniture, no sink or bed, no food or water. Wherever he is, why it is he has been brought, signs point to the kidnapper not particularly caring about his comfort level or his overall health. And that, of course, prompts the question of it he's meant to ever leave at all.

In his gut, Castle can admit that all the signs point to no.

* * *

The door buzzing echoes through the hall, bouncing off the metal bars, the concrete floor. It even radiates inside Kate's skull, bringing tension to her jaw, and a pounding wave of nausea to go with the knot of tension that has formed behind her eyes. She'd spent the morning arguing in circles with Gates, with the Hamptons PD, with the liaison from the FBI who had attended their meeting.

None of them had wanted her to do this, just three among a growing number of people who felt it was best that Kate remain distant from the investigation, especially if it became evident that Bracken was involved in Castle's disappearance. But, seven days later, not only were there a startlingly few lack of leads but no one had made a move to talk to the person that had all the reasons in the world to take away what she loved most. The guy with a vendetta and the power to accomplish such a feat even from his prison cell.

"Detective Beckett, we meet again," William Bracken begins speaking the moment he is escorted into the room, shackles clamping his hands and feet to leave him shuffling the few feet to the chair across from her, an expectant look directed her way as the guard secures both sets to the table and departs from the room.

"I know you understand the value of time, so I'm going to do us both a favor and not waste it. Where is Castle, Bracken?" Kate attempts to keep herself calm, her voice detached, but she can feel the emotion, the hot bubble of rage that is buried none too deep within the words. Fury that only grows when the former Senator's face morphs from expectant to predatory, that sly smile she saw so often in her dreams and her nightmares crawling across his face.

She wants to throw up. She wants to throw something. She wants to lunge over the table and drive her fist into his face until its stained crimson.

"How would I know that? I've been otherwise detained for almost a month. You should know that, since you were there to do the honors. Tell me, Kate, do you sleep better now that you've gotten your revenge? Is life everything you hoped it'd be after you snagged the man who supposedly did such _horrible_ things?" His voice still carries that small lilt, the pattern and careful weight that all politicians perfect over time. It's his campaign voice, the one used to sell that William H. Bracken is the supporter of the every man, that he has the good of the American people in mind. It's a voice of confidence and self-assurance, a man who is not easily rattled.

In all her years of chasing him, of clandestine meetings and open threads Kate realizes that she's never seen Bracken lose his temper, his poise. It's what makes him exceptional as a politician, and if things were very different, if he weren't a controlling psychopath, she could imagine a scenario where she would vote for him as President.

But the undeniable truth of the world is that it isn't different. At nineteen this man took her mother from her, the lives of other men and women from their families, all in a quest for power. He's a demon, a snake, someone who deserves to die for his crimes, not rot away in one of the nicest prisons that the United States of America has to offer.

She's rather sorry that there wasn't an opportunity to put a bullet in his head.

"You have reach. Plenty of contacts, plenty of supporters. I don't believe that you being in jail would limit what you would do in revenge. You like power, you like to feel in charge, and you definitely want to ruin my life. Killing me hasn't worked, somehow I've always survived, and now you're in jail," Kate shrugged, arms spread wide to encompass the tiny box that witnessed their meeting, "revenge is a language you and I both speak. My fiancee went missing on our wedding day, ran off the road by an SUV, pulled from his car and taken away, and I know you know where he is. You might as well tell me, Bracken. You and I both know I won't stop looking until I find him, so save me some trouble, do the right thing for once."

Her words are greeted with silence, the graze of the man's eyes over her face, the tabletop, the handcuffs that keep him chained to the table, "I've had a successful career, Detective. Made a lot of people very happy, done a lot of good for the state of New York, and I've done that by always being willing to deal. To look past differences in political parties, morality, to find legal loopholes and write in a favor or two in a bill. I'm good at dealing, I'm good at protecting my own interests."

He shrugs then, that same smirk turning his features into something vile, "I respect you, part of me admires your tenacity, but if you won't stop looking there's really no reason for me to help. I'm a man willing to deal, but not with you."

"Guard, we're done here," Bracken calls over his shoulder, "I don't have anything left to say," he adds towards Kate, who rises from her seat and exits the room before the ex-Senator can say anything else.

* * *

The brown box is the first thing Kate sees when she strolls through the door, the shipping label bright against the cardboard backing where the thing sits against the back of one of the armchairs. It's enough to give her pause as she shrugs off her blazer, drops her keys on the table and removes her heels, pants pooling around her bare feet when she pads over to the box to inspect the label.

_Katherine B. Castle_

_595 Broome Street_

_New York, NY 10013_

A wedding present, undoubtedly if the last name on the label is anything to go by and it all wallops her again, a rising tide of emotion and the ache of both not knowing and simply missing Castle. The feelings aren't anything new, all something that she experiences multiple times a day, but its always the worst in the loft where everywhere Kate looks is a reminder of him. The nights prove to be the worst, those moments where she wakes from the inevitable nightmares gasping for breath and trembling from visions both real and imagined. It's then that she usually forgets, finds herself looking for him or expecting the warm embrace of his arms, the brush of his mouth at the crown of her head, the soothing touch of his fingers across her skin.

It doesn't come, and her heart shatters like she's back in the Hamptons and staring at the fire as it crawls over the battered shell of his car.

She's just located the scissors to slice open the box when footsteps sound on the stairs, a flash of long coppery-red hair trailing behind Alexis, "Kate, hey," she says, a little breathless and eyes wide with expectation and questions. There is a crackle of tension around them, Alexis full of hope and Kate of anxiety, aware that she will again provide only disappointing news to the young woman. As with every day before, there are no leads, no indicator of where Castle might be and, in spite of her certainty that Bracken is involved, absolutely no evidence to prove it.

"Hey, Alexis," she replies, the sound of the scissors slicing through the packing tape almost louder than her voice, and she tries not to notice when Alexis takes it for the confirmation that it is, how the girls face falls and she attempts to hide it behind the curtain of her hair. And Kate understands, vivid memories of her tears on the drive back from her visit with Bracken, the frustration and helpless feeling of another dead end, so she busies herself with unfolding the lip of the box, shuffling the packing peanuts to close her fingers around something stiff.

She lifts the sculpture out carefully, Kate's eyes going wide as the body of an elephant rises from the styrofoam, its trunk curling towards the ceiling in a slight S pattern. It's excellent work, unique and beautiful, making her heart thrash painfully in her chest. The piece of art appears to be nothing more than a wire frame covered in paper, coated in some sort of gel to give it a slight shine, the typed face of the words standing in bold, crisscrossed lines that wrap around the body.

"Is there a card?" Alexis asks, forgoing her own grief to root around in the peanuts as Kate's eyes begin to scan the text, the crease forming between her brows almost immediately as snatches of sentences of phrases fire in her brain from their familiarity.

It takes a moment for the pieces to come together, the final one clicking into place at her alter-ego's name embedded within the page.

"These pages are from Castle's books….from Nikki's books, my books…" Kate says, dropping the elephant back into the box as if she's been burned by its touch. As a cop she doesn't believe in coincidence, trained to look at evidence and clues, and she knows this isn't a wedding present. It's too personal, carefully crafted and delivered, the pages picked to illustrate the more painful and violent passages within Castle's books. Pages that pick up on death and loss, and, furthermore, feature threats to Nikki and Jameson Rook.

The elephant isn't a present, it's both a threat, and a clue.

* * *

"You know, I thought it would be harder to get to you."

He's groggy, lost in a drug induced pain-reliever haze that makes everything blurry and seem to be coming from a long tunnel. Castle can hear someone talking, see the outline of a woman hovering over him, but its too much to process. Trying to understand what she says, who she is, where he is, it's all beyond his capabilities until the sharp slap of a palm connects with his cheek.

The burst of pain wakes him up, abruptly pulls him towards the dingy cinder block cell that has become his home, to the smell of antiseptic and blood, the bright red hair that reminds him of his mother and daughter shining like a beacon.

Kelly Neiman looks as put together as when he first met her, every hair in place, makeup carefully applied. Power suits and expensive handbags have been traded for jeans and a simple shirt, a mark of the setting which he has guessed is rural. In fact, Castle would bet that they aren't even in New York, possibly not even New England, because he is sure he's residing in a storm shelter, the kind that are prominent in the Midwest and American South.

But he doesn't ask questions, hasn't said much at all since the fourth day when his curiosity had earned a lashing with a horse whip, cutting sharp lines over his torso and face, lines that Neiman had eventually dressed and cared for with the precision of her chosen profession, enough tenderness in her gaze that he found himself distinctly uncomfortable with the notion that the woman had kidnapped him, hurt him, and seemed to find pleasure in patching him back together.

That's the gaze he's on the receiving end of now as she kneels down, using the wipes to carefully clean along the dirty matted skin of the arm cast he now wears, tutting softly when the white square comes away black and soiled. "Just filthy, how terrible," she sighs, lightly patting his shoulder, "We'll have to do something about that."

"Yeah, I've got a suggestion," he croaks, voice heavy and low from disuse and drugs, "Let me go, first thing I'll do, grab a shower."

Part of him stiffens for the slap, seven days of these reactions conditioning him to ready for whatever blow she gives. Sometimes its her hand, the whip, whatever small item she can find handy. But it never comes, instead he's treated to a light chuckle, a predatory smile, "I don't think so, Rick. You will stay right here until your darling Detective rides in for the rescue, I expect she'll be getting her first clue anytime now."


End file.
